Preservation
by captdeb
Summary: When Carson and Ronon meet with an offworld disaster, can the doctor save the day?
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: For the endlessly patient __TBiscuit__, who won this story in the __savecarsonbeckett__ auction ages ago. Hope it was worth the wait!_

Carson dreamed that he was once again eight years old, sitting on the high stool in the summer canning kitchen, watching his mother put up preserves. Steam from the great stockpots filled the room with the scent of malt vinegar. Mum would skin the boiled beetroot and pack them into wide-mouth jars. Next came the vinegar, and finally the special lids that popped when you opened them. Carson never liked pickled beetroot, but as he grew older and traveled all over the world, the smell of vinegar never failed to take him back to the old kitchen and the memory of his Mum, limp-haired and sweating but singing cheerily as she worked, proudly wearing the hideous paisley apron he'd picked out for her birthday.

Mum was like that, Carson mused as he lay in a sprawled heap, smelling pickled preserves but tasting dirt. An angel from heaven – unless you threatened the family. Mothers protecting their children were often described as grizzly bears, but Carson had actually heard his mother growl, and it was a truly frightening thing. In fact, he thought as he weakly spit sod out of his mouth, he was pretty sure he was hearing it right now.

"Steady on, Mum," he muttered. "Got a headache."

The growl got louder. Lord, but the woman could get stroppy.

"Leave off, Mum!" Carson whined.

"Damn it, Beckett, WAKE UP!"

Carson lifted his head and immediately dropped it again, panting his way through a swell of nausea. Bile collected in his mouth that he didn't dare swallow, instead letting it drool into a puddle beneath his cheek. Whimpering, he dug the toes of his sneaker into the dirt and waited for it to pass. Once his stomach was reasonably under control, he cracked open one eye. He was obviously concussed. That explained the pain, nausea and blurred vision, but why did he still smell pickled beetroot?

"C'mon, Doc. Need your help."

Now that he had his wits about him a bit more, Carson recognized Ronon's voice and heard the strain in it. "Coming," he wheezed, his mouth and throat as dry as a desert. He wiped grit out of his eyes with a none-too-steady hand and raised his head again. Looking slowly to his right, he could just make out a long, dark blur. It took a moment or two to coordinate his limbs, much longer to crawl inch by agonizing inch until his fingers touched leather.

"You look bad."

Carson blinked rapidly and managed to bring the Satedan into almost-focus. "I'll live. Where are you hurt?"

"Leg's broken."

Pushing himself to his knees, he ran an experienced eye over the thigh clutched in the warrior's big hands. "This is going to hurt a bit," he said apologetically, shifting Ronon's hands away and replacing them with his own. "What happened? And why the bloody hell do I smell pickles?"

"Wraith. Generator blew when the culling beam hit it. We landed in a food cellar."

Carson's battered brain clearly recalled a crowd of thin but happy children lined up to receive immunizations and candy. Ronon, still mending from the injuries he received at the hands of the Wraith on Sateda, was there to act as his bodyguard. The big warrior had been a surprise hit with the kids, who traveled in his wake like pilot fish following a shark.

Now there was a palpable lump halfway down his thigh. Carson prodded it gently, visualizing the broken ends of the long bone and the location of the femoral artery. Sitting back on his haunches, he looked around the cellar for anything he could use for a splint. A pile of firewood against one wall provided two long sticks. Beckett dragged them over and began unlacing Ronon's boot. The Satedan was unable to suppress a hiss at the tiny movement.

"Sorry, son, I know it hurts but you need to be very still for me." Boot off and sticks in place, Carson set about improvising the necessary straps. He sighed. There was nothing for it. Sliding Ronon's knife out of its sheath, the doctor sliced the sleeves off his favorite T-shirt and cut them into strips. He tied the sticks to the broken limb and tied a hitch around the ankle. "All right, lad, this is the hard part. Ready?"

Ronon was breathing through his teeth, his face a mask of fierce determination. He nodded. "Do it, Doc."

Beckett pulled steadily on the ankle strap with one hand, using his other to monitor the break. When he felt the ends of the bones slip into alignment, he tied the strap to the long end of the stick. He sat back and observed his makeshift traction splint with satisfaction. "It'll do," he declared. "How are you holding up?"

Ronon's face was pale beneath smudges of dirt and a sheen of perspiration. "M'okay," he muttered. He let out a shaky breath and wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. "Okay," he repeated, sounding a bit more convincing the second time around. His dark eyes turned to Beckett. "How's your head? Your eyes look weird."

Carson raised an unsteady hand and gently probed his scalp. "Ach, I've a lump the size o' Rodney's ego, and a headache to match, but I'll live." Something swam into his vision and he crawled into a dim corner of the cellar. A black nylon strap was protruding from a mass of broken clay jars and pickled preserves. He snagged it and pulled his pack loose. "Bloody hell," he moaned as he made his way back to Ronon's side. Fumbling with the closures, he opened the bag and emptied its contents on the floor. "I'm sorry, lad," he said as he found a pre-loaded syringe of morphine and injected it into Ronon's uninjured thigh. "If my brains weren't so rattled, I'd have looked for this earlier and gotten you some pain relief before setting that leg."

"S'okay," the Satedan said, "I've had worse."

"I'm very sorry to hear that." Carson shook out three Tylenol and swallowed them dry. With his head injury, he didn't dare take anything stronger, much to his regret. Slumping against the wall, he closed his eyes and tried not to think about the nauseating pounding in his skull.

"Your leg's bleeding."

Beckett forced his eyelids up. There was a large rent in the side of his trousers, just below his hip. He gave the shallow laceration a cursory glance and closed his eyes again. "It's nothing. Just a scratch."

He could hear Ronon sifting through the medical supplies, then the sound of paper tearing. "Even a scratch can get infected," the warrior recited. Beckett's grin at having his words quoted back to him quickly morphed into a grimace as he felt the cold sting of antiseptic against the cut. Fabric ripped as Ronon widened the tear for better access to the injury. The Satedan paused in his ministrations. "Interesting scars."

"I was in an accident some years ago, an auto crash."

Ronon made a noncommittal sound and covered the scratch with a bandage. "It's quiet up there. Wraith are probably gone."

"I'll check, give me a minute, Mum."

"What?"

Carson opened his eyes and looked around, momentarily bewildered at not finding himself in the canning kitchen back home. "Where am I?"

There was no disguising the concern in Ronon's face. "Doc?"

"Beetroot… " Beckett scrubbed at his face with a heavy hand. "Why does it smell like pickles in here?"

"You asked that already. The Wraith attacked, remember? We fell in the –"

"—Root cellar, aye, I remember now. Sorry, lad. My head's achin' somethin' fierce."

"Stay with me, Doc. Think you can make it up the stairs to take a look around?"

"Aye." Carson twisted his body until he was on hands and knees, then began a slow crawl towards the debris-covered stairs.

"Hey Doc?"

Pausing, the doctor glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

Pain and worry creased the Satedan's face, but his eyes were twinkling. "Do I really remind you of your mother?"

Carson grinned in spite of himself. "Oh, you're not nearly as scary."


	2. Chapter 2

He navigated the stone stairs on hands and knees, pushing aside shattered wooden planks and squishing his way through preserves. By the time he reached the top his teeth were clenched against the rhythmic pounding in his head. He peeked over the last step, almost sighing as the cool breeze refreshed him and dissipated some of the beet stench that clung to him like a wet wool sweater. Reminding himself to focus, he gazed around at what was left of the Farisian village.

There was a blackened circle twenty meters in diameter where the naquadah generator had stood. The humble little homes were abandoned. Cooking fires had gone dark, food left uneaten, chairs overturned…Carson's memory came back to him in fits and snatches. There was the large, shady tree under which he'd set up his makeshift clinic, dispensing advice and antibiotics to the adults, vaccinations and sweets to the children. There was the field where Ronon had roughhoused with the kids, lurching about roaring in mock anger with giggling, skinny little bodies clinging to his legs and hanging off his biceps and neck. Now the entire village was silent save the faintest rustling of the breeze in the grass. For a moment, Carson let relief wash over him. "It's clear, I think," he called over his shoulder. Even as the words left his mouth, a distant whine made him duck. His knee slipped and he bumped painfully down several steps before twisting and scuttling down the remaining steps on his backside.

"Dart," he panted as he returned to the runner's side. "Sounds far away, though."

"They'll still be guarding the gate then," Ronon said.

"So what do we do?"

"For now? Stay put."

Carson pulled his knees up and rested his elbows on them, cradling his skull in his hands. "All those people," he murmured.

A grunt escaped the Satedan as he carefully shifted his weight. "Most of 'em probably made it to the tunnels."

Carson nodded as his brain fed him another bit of memory.

_"We do not know why, but the Wraith cannot penetrate the tunnels." __Sayair__, a robust man in his fifties, was watching the blood pressure cuff inflate around his arm with open curiosity and just a touch of concern. "Doctor, this is getting uncomfortable…"_

_"I know, but it only lasts a few seconds and it'll do you no harm, I promise." Beckett slipped the bell of his stethoscope under the edge of the cuff and listened, releasing the valve with a practiced twist. "One twenty over eighty-two," he said, making a note on his clipboard._

_"Is that good?"_

_"__Better than mine__."__ He tore off the cuff and tried not to smile as __Sayair__ fingered the Velcro in amazement. "You were saying?"_

_"Hmm?__ Oh, the tunnels. Just beyond the tree line there are a number of entrances. They're hidden, of course – if you don't know they're there, you would walk right past them. At the first sign of an attack, the village evacuates. Those who make it to the tunnels remain safe."_

_Beckett placed the thermometer in __Sayair's__ ear until it beeped. He showed the reading to his curious patient and then recorded it on the chart. __"Ninety nine point one.__Again, very good."__ Beckett wrapped a tourniquet around one tan arm and slipped on a pair of gloves. __Sayair__ was clearly nervous about this part, despite having watched several people __go__ before him. "Do you lose many when the Wraith __come__?"_

_"We always lose a few," the __Farisian__ said regretfully. "Often, the aged and infirm run in the opposite direction, to draw the Wraith away."_

_Beckett paused, the __Betadine__-infused swab poised in mid-air. "That's dreadful."_

_Sayair's__ eyes were solemn and sad. "Yes, Doctor, it is. It is also quite beautiful."_

_"Yes," Beckett mused, returning his attention to his disinfecting, "I see that. All right, you'll feel a bit of a pinch." The needle slipped in easily, and the attached vial began to fill with dark blood. __Sayair__ looked a bit queasy, so Beckett continued to distract him. "How do you know when it's safe to leave the tunnels?"_

_"We have supplies to last two days. Generally we stay in the tunnels for a full day before sending a scout to the surface. Uh, Doctor, I am not feeling very well…" __Sayair's__ face was chalk-white, his eyes glued to the sight of his own blood draining from his arm._

_"Oh dear, steady, man," Beckett withdrew the needle and slapped a square of gauze over the puncture site, then leaned forward and pushed __Sayair's__ head down between his knees. "Nice, normal breaths, that's the ticket." _

"OW!" Beckett jerked away from a sharp pain in his leg. Rubbing the offending spot, he glared at the Satedan next to him and demanded, "Did you just pinch me?"

"Thought you were sleeping."

"Well, I wasn't. Was I?"

"Called you, didn't answer."

"Sorry, lad. Do you need something? No water, I'm afraid, you'll likely need surgery as soon as we get back to Atlantis."

"I'm okay. How's your head?"

"I'm trying not to think about it," Carson sighed. "I do need to stay awake, though."

"Want me to pinch you again?"

The doctor grinned. "Maybe you can just talk to me, all right?"

"Okay. Tell me about those cuts on your leg."

Carson rubbed the area in question without conscious thought. "There's not much to tell. It happened when I was in medical school. Driving home from a late shift in the emergency room, got sideswiped by a tourist driving on the wrong side of the road. Luckily I wasn't hurt badly, just bruises and some cuts. Why all the interest? I wouldn't think scars would be all that interesting to a man who's got so bloody many of his own."

Ronon shrugged, carefully shifting his weight a tiny fraction in an attempt to get comfortable without jarring his leg. "Just wondering why you'd lie about them."

For a moment Carson thought he hadn't heard right. "Excuse me?"

"They're not from a car accident."

"How would you know, ya great lummox? You've never even seen a bloody car, have you?" Rubbing the scars more vigorously, Carson tried to get a handle on his growing agitation.

"I've seen knife wounds," the Satedan replied, his voice never losing its matter-of-fact tone. "Those were made by a thin blade. Evenly-spaced. Deliberate."

"Well, thank you for the consultation, _Doctor__Dex_. If I want your bloody medical opinion I'll ask for it. Can we _please_ talk about something besides fifteen-year-old scars?"

Ronon regarded the red-faced doctor with a searching gaze. "You're mad."

"I'm not mad," came the automatic denial. "Okay, I am mad. I just don't want to argue. My head hurts," Carson practically sobbed, cradling his abused skull in his palms. "Sorry," he whispered. "I'm bein' a bastard."

"No. It's none of my business. Sorry."

The two men sat for a time without speaking. Somewhere in the cellar something was dripping, a slow, hypnotic sound. Carson had read that the Chinese used a similar sound as a form of torture. Frankly he couldn't see what the fuss was about. He found it rather soothing, like the metronome on his gran's old piano. He closed his eyes and listened, imagining his heartbeat slowing down to match the drops.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

"Ow! Stop pinching me ya manky eejit!"


	3. Chapter 3

The next hour passed with agonizing slowness. At some point it started to rain, leaving their hideaway chilly and damp. The smell of the preserves grew so cloying that Carson finally lost his battle with nausea, retching miserably in the corner. His headache grew exponentially worse even as new aches and pains made themselves known. He checked on Ronon, who had fallen into a light doze, then made his way back to the stairs, now slick with watered-down fruit.

The trip up seemed to take twice as long as before. Carson rested his head on the top step and caught his breath, straining to hear over his own panting. He listened a long time, hearing only the local equivalent of crickets.

Ronon was awake when he came back down. "I think they're gone," the doctor said. He pulled his sidearm out, nervously checking it just as Sheppard had taught him. "I'm going to head for the gate and bring back help."

"You shouldn't go alone," the Satedan grumbled.

"Believe me, it's not my first choice. But you can't be movin' around with that fracture. If the broken ends of the femur slip out of alignment, they could sever the artery and you'd bleed out in minutes. Besides, you're twice my bloody size, not like I could carry you in any case." Carson's mind helpfully supplied him with a slightly exaggerated vision of Ronon draped over his shoulder, bent double with hands and feet still dragging on the ground. "No, you need to stay still until I can get a team here with a stretcher."

"Be careful, Doc. Stay alert, and take your time, won't help me if you get hurt."

"Understood. Sit tight, lad, I'll be back as soon as I can."

Carson climbed the stairs yet again, pausing at the top for a look around. The moon was largely obscured by clouds, leaving him just enough light to keep from falling into any more root cellars. He hoped. The steady, soaking rain was cold and ran down the back of his collar as he set forth, squelching through the mud with his sidearm in his hand and his eyes darting furiously about in the gloom. With every step he expected to hear the whine of a dart or see a Wraith drone step out of the darkness. The gate was two kilometers away.

For a time, his taut nerves kept him alert and scanning for signs of danger, but as he trudged on and met no resistance the pain in his head consumed more and more of his attention. By the time he had the first kilometer behind him he was concentrating on putting one stumbling foot in front of the other and resisting the urge to drop down in the mud and rest.

He never saw the drop until he was sliding down the embankment, scrambling for a handhold and losing his gun in the process. He landed hard feet-first, pain flashing from his ankle up the outside of his right leg, before collapsing in a heap face down in a puddle.

Carson rolled over, gasping and coughing up water. For a long moment he laid where he'd fallen, exhausted and hurting and wanting nothing more than to curl up right there in the mud and go to sleep. Then he thought of Ronon, stuck in the damp cellar with his morphine shot beginning to wear off.

He flexed his foot, hissing as fire licked up his leg. "Tore the tendon, tore the bloody tendon," he chanted through clenched teeth. "Damn it, damn it, damn it." He dragged himself to his feet, swaying and shivering, and gingerly tested his leg. It hurt like the devil, but it held his weight.

Mud caked his hair and face and weighed down his uniform. Carson turned his face up into the rain and shouted his frustration to the sky. "BLOODY HELL!"

He huffed and took a few deep breaths, then settled down and got on with it. He was a Scot, after all.

A game leg and sucking mud made for a bloody inconvenient combination, he decided as he limped to the far side of the trench. It was about three meters deep and nearly the same wide, and stretched out to either side as far as his admittedly limited vision could make out. This was worrisome on two counts. One, Carson couldn't remember crossing it on their way to the village, which meant he was probably traveling in the wrong direction. And two, he was seriously concerned about the possibility of a flash flood. The sooner he got out of this bloody deathtrap, in any direction, the better.

He picked a spot that seemed slightly less steep and had a go at climbing, but the walls crumbled under his hands and sent him sliding back down to the bottom with a painful jolt. He'd just decided to walk further down when the tiny hairs stirred on the back of his neck.

He'd never be able to say for sure what made him turn around, whether he'd heard the low growl over the pounding rain, or whether some long-dormant instinct kicked in just when he needed it most. Either way, he turned, and for a moment he saw the animal, standing on the bank, silhouetted against the shrouded moon. It looked like a large bear, with a long brush of a tail and an elongated snout. As he stood in horrified paralysis, the creature raised its head and bellowed a challenge, exposing rows of finger-length teeth.

Carson reached for his sidearm but found only an empty holster. "Crap," he whispered as the bear-thing dropped into a crouch. Carson spun around and threw himself at the bank. Sheer panic saw him half-way up before a crushing weight smashed him into the mud and slammed the air from his lungs. Before he even got his breath back he was yanked off his feet. The bear-thing had a grip on the shoulder strap of his LBE. Carson screamed in terror as he was jerked and shaken like a rag doll. Abruptly he was flung across the trench, landing on his stomach with a splat.

To his amazement, his gun was a meter in front of his face. He lunged even as one massive paw landed on his back, flattening him with enough force to make his spine pop and his eyes water. The gun was just beyond his fingertips. He strained desperately, the pressure on his ribs making him groan. The very tip of his middle finger touched the trigger guard.

Hot breath washed over his neck. Long, spittle-flecked teeth flashed in his peripheral vision.

Carson hooked the trigger guard and pulled the gun towards his body.

The animal's fangs closed on his upper arm, slicing through fabric and flesh.

Howling in agony, Carson pointed the gun at the great furry head and pulled the trigger. For a moment the jaws clamped down even tighter, the teeth scraping bone. He shot it again and again, agony shooting through his body every time the animal jerked. Finally, the blasted thing shuddered and died. And collapsed right on top of him.

Squashed flat, barely able to breath, his arm and leg on fire and his head feeling twice its normal size, Carson was nearing the end of his reserves. There was no telling how long he might have lain there if the water hadn't started to rise.

The rain was falling harder than ever, and Carson realized he was in serious danger of drowning in a puddle. Whimpering, he wiggled his way out from under the heavy carcass and lay prone in pain and exhaustion. Over the sound of his own gasping, he gradually became aware of another noise. He lifted his head, concentrating on the distant rumble. Thunder? No…

His eyes flew open. A jolt of adrenaline shot through his body. He was on his feet with no memory of getting up, scrabbling at the nearest bank with broken, dirty fingernails, desperately trying to find the handholds that had eluded him before. Though he had never before heard the sound of millions upon millions of gallons of water rushing toward him, Carson had no doubt that he was hearing it now. After all he'd been through on this thrice-damned mission, now he was about to drown like a bug in a downspout.


	4. Chapter 4

He began cursing breathlessly as he scratched and scrambled at the muddy walls of his prison. By the time he'd made it half-way up he'd cursed the planet, its people, its weather, Elizabeth for sending him here, Ronan for getting himself injured, and Rodney McKay just on general principle. Most of all, he cursed beetroot. He was cursing it at the top of his lungs when he saw the wall of water moving towards him and knew he wouldn't make it in time. "BLOODY STINKING BEETROOT!" he screamed at the night sky.

"Doctor Beckett!"

Carson looked up in astonishment. Leaning down from the top of the embankment was Sayair, his expressive face full of mingled relief and horror.

"Take my hand, quickly!"

With a groan, Carson detached one hand from the mud and reached for the Farisian, only to slide downwards with the change in grip. Sayair's eyes widened and he lunged, grabbing Carson's hand in a tight, calloused grip. "I have him! Pull us up!" he shouted over his shoulder. The water reached them just as they were hoisting Carson up, slamming into his legs with the force of a speeding auto. Sayair's grip slipped, but before Carson had time to panic he felt more hands on him, pulling him over the edge and depositing him safely on horizontal ground.

The hands roamed his body, checking for injuries, while Sayair offered assurances in a voice loud enough to be heard over the rain. "Please relax, Doctor, you are safe. We could not find your companion, do you know where he is?"

"In the canning kitchen," Carson panted. "He's hurt, I have to get to the gate."

The Farisian frowned. "Canning kitchen? I don't understand."

Carson forced himself to concentrate. "The cellar, with the preserves. His leg is broken, I have to get help."

Understanding bloomed on Sayair's face. "Robain, take the others and go back to the village, find Mr. Ronon and keep him comfortable. I'll take Doctor Beckett to the gate so he can contact his people." He placed a hand on Carson's shoulder and eased him into a sitting position. "Can you walk, Doctor? It is not far."

"Aye." In truth, Carson was very nearly spent. His leg and head throbbed, his shoulder burned like it had been injected with acid, and his vision was reduced to an abstract blur of colors like a Monet left out in the rain. Buck up, Carson, he told himself, less than a kilometer and you can have a nice long rest. "Aye. Help me up."

* * *

"Incoming wormhole."

Elizabeth Weir looked up from her endless queue of reports. Saving her work, she stepped out of her office and took up a stance behind the gate technician. He glanced over his shoulder. "It's Dr. Beckett's code, ma'am."

She frowned. "He's not due to check in for another three hours. Lower the shield."

The tech nodded and pressed a control, and the shield before the wormhole flickered and vanished. Within seconds, a pair of muddy figures staggered through. Elizabeth was on her way down the stairs before the wormhole shut down.

The man returning with Dr. Beckett was not the man he'd left with, and that was concerning. The marines on guard in the gate room were obviously unhappy with it as well and had their weapons trained on the stranger. Not-Ronon, for his part, seemed torn between gawking at the architecture and glancing nervously at the armed squad surrounding him. He had one arm around Carson's waist, clearly supporting much of his weight.

And Carson himself…Elizabeth had never seen him look so bedraggled. His hair and clothes were sodden and heavy with mud. Blood coursed freely down his arm, dripping from the tips of his fingers. Even with the stranger's support, he swayed on his feet. His eyes, looking huge and white in his dirty face, searched the room until he found her. "Lizbeth," he slurred, detaching himself from his companion and taking a few limping steps in her direction. "Need a med team."

"No kidding," she replied as she took his arm. A glance at the tech confirmed that a team was on its way. Major Lorne hit the control room at a run, eyes narrowing at Beckett's disheveled state.

"No no, not for me," he insisted, rubbing at his temple. "Ronon's back on the planet. Closed femoral fracture."

Elizabeth turned to Lorne. "Have a team ready to go as soon as the medical team can leave. Carson, can you tell us how to find Ronon?"

The doctor waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the gate. "Sayair can take ya. I've gotta go scrub for surgery." He pulled at her hold on his arm, but she held him fast.

"Whoa, Carson, I think you'd better leave the surgery to one of your staff. You're injured and need treatment yourself."

Still tugging absently against her grip, he shook his head. "Piece of cake. Reamed locked antegrade femoral nailing, weight-bearing as tolerated, physical therapy. He'll be right as rain." Carson turned wide eyes on her, his expression earnest. "A bear tried to eat me, you know. There's no bears in Scotland."

With that pronouncement, his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

"Carson, if you don't stop being a pill I swear I'll sedate you." Carmen Ruiz finished noting his vitals on his chart, and her short, angry motions left no doubt that she was down to her last nerve.

"I'm bored! Just bring me some charts to review. Better yet, bring me those overdue personnel reviews," Carson crabbed with a face like a thundercloud. "I'd like to do yours now."

"Oh, I'm shaking." A good fifteen years his senior, Carmen wasn't about to be intimidated by a hissy fit, even if it came from her boss. "You have a linear skull fracture and a grade three concussion, you idiot. You need rest, and we both know ten minutes of reading is going to leave you with a migraine. So do us both a favor and stop whining like a six-year-old with chicken pox."

Carson shifted in his bed, frowning darkly. "You're fired," he sulked.

"I know," she said, patting his hand. "Do you want some juice?"

The sulk deepened. "Yes."

Carmen sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I know you hate this," she said quietly. "But for any other patient you'd be doing the same. One more day of observation, Carson. One more day of IV antibiotics so that bite doesn't get infected, one more day off that leg. You'll feel much better in the long run, and I won't get in trouble with my boss for doing a half-assed job."

He met her smile with a wry one of her own. "I am being a pill. I'm sorry. One more day sounds about right. I know I'm pushin' my luck, love, but perhaps a compromise?"

Carmen rose and shook her head in exasperation. "I'll bring you Ronon's chart, if you promise to get some sleep afterwards."

Carson grinned, flashing the dimples he knew Carmen was completely immune to. "Deal."

The other doctor left, pulling aside the curtain between his bed and the next one over. Ronon looked at him over the top of his comic book. "You shouldn't make her mad. Doctors have ways of getting back at you."

"I hadn't noticed," Beckett answered sourly. "How's your leg feeling?"

"Pretty good. Getting out tomorrow. Supposed to use those sticks for awhile."

"See that you do. The bone needs time to heal before you go runnin' about on it."

"Actually, we had a hard time finding crutches long enough," Carmen said, placing a cup of juice and a file folder on Carson's bedside table. "Fortunately, we still had Halling's in storage. Lights out in fifteen minutes, gentlemen."

Carson waved her away absently, already engrossed in Ronon's file. "He did a retrograde procedure, interesting," he muttered. "Carmen, ask Doctor Patel to come see me tomorrow, please!" he called after her.

"Only if you eat all your breakfast!" came the teasing response.

"Infuriating woman." Carson flipped a page in Patel's operative report. "No blood vessel involvement, everything went well. You'll do just fine," he said, tossing the file back on the table with a sigh.

"What about you?"

"Oh, I'll be fine too. She's just being cautious, is all." Carson touched the bandage over his upper arm, grateful the drainage tube had been removed. "This bite will leave some interesting scars, though."

Ronon was silent for a moment, his comic book laying forgotten on his blanket. After looking around to make sure they were alone, he began to speak in a low voice.

"Back on Sateda, there was a guy in my platoon named Harvick. He was older than me by a few years, seen a lot more action. Every time we came back from a mission, he'd take his knife and carve a symbol into his chest. Not too big, not too deep – just enough to scar."

Carson felt his jaw tighten. He focused on the ceiling, as though not looking at Ronon meant not hearing him.

"One time, after a bad mission, I saw him doing it and I asked him why. He said it reminded him that he could still feel."

Seconds ticked by in silence. Ronon waited patiently for his response.

Finally, Carson swallowed hard. "It wasn't like that for me. I was this daft country lad, off to the big city for medical school." His mind spun back over the years, remembering those exhilarating, terrifying days. "The family went into debt to pay for my education. The pressure to do well was incredible.

"It was terribly difficult. The competition was hell. It seemed like every week a student was dropping out and going home. Some of them turned to drugs."

"But you found something else," Ronon murmured.

"The stakes were so high," Carson sighed. "As I got further on, it was worse. Making a mistake not only meant letting down the family, it meant harming, maybe even killing a patient. I don't know if you can understand."

"Yeah," came the rumbling reply. "When I was a Runner, if I screwed up, people died."

"I got so I couldn't deal with it," Carson whispered. "The pressure to be perfect. Every little mistake sent me into a panic, then a depression. Cutting myself restored my equilibrium. It was as if, once the mistake was punished, I could move on."

"It gave you control."

"Aye. After awhile, as I got more confident and more experienced, the urge to cut went away."

"Didn't stay away though. One of those cuts was more recent."

Carson felt his face flush with color. "That was Hoff. Before your time."

Ronon pushed himself up and leaned on one elbow. "Look, Doc, I'm guessing you don't need me to tell you something's not healthy. You ever feel like doing that again, you come find me first. We'll spar, or run, maybe even meditate with Teyla. But no more cutting, got it?"

Carson nodded, still embarrassed. "Aye, I promise."

"Good." The Satedan settled back, squirming slightly until the pillows were just right. "And if I didn't already say it, thanks."

The infirmary lights dimmed to their nighttime setting. In the resulting hush, Carson called quietly across the space between beds. "Ronon? You're welcome." He smiled as a loud snore was his only answer. "And thank you too, lad."

End


End file.
